The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  But from their standpoint it was not piracy—it was resistance to piracy; and when Amos, the ex-engineer, had stopped the engines and banked the fires, they announced to the captives bound to the rail that, with all due respect for the law, national and international, they would take that distressed steamboat into New York and deliver her to the authorities, with a claim for salvage. The bargain had been made on the American coast, and their logbook not only attested this, but the well-doing of their part of the contract.

  When the infuriated English captain, now recovered, had exhausted his stock of adjectives and epithets, he informed them (and he was backed by his steward and engineer) that there was neither food nor coal for the run to New York; to which Elisha replied that, if so, the foolish and destructive waste would be properly entered in the logbook, and might form the basis of a charge of barratry by the underwriters, if it turned out that any underwriters had taken a risk on a craft with such an “all-fired lunatic” for a skipper as this. But they would go back; they might be forced to burn some of the woodwork fittings (her decks were of iron) for fuel, and as for food, though their own supply of groceries was about exhausted, there were several cubic yards of salt codfish in the schooner’s hold, and this they would eat: they were used to it themselves, and science had declared that it was good brain-food—good for feeble-minded Englishmen who couldn’t splice wire nor take care of a chronometer.

  Before starting back they made some preliminary and precautionary preparations. While Martin inventoried the stores and Amos the coal-supply, the others towed the schooner alongside and moored her. Then they shackled the schooner’s end of the chain cable around the inner barrel of the windlass and riveted the key of the shackle. They transhipped their clothing and what was left of the provisions. They also took the logbook and charts, compass, empty outer chronometer-case—which Elisha handled tenderly and officiously by its strap in full view of the captives—windlass-brakes, tool-chest, deck-tools, axes, handspikes, heavers, boat-hooks, belaying-pins, and everything in the shape of weapon or missile by which disgruntled Englishmen could do harm to the schooner or their rescuers.

  Then they passed the rescued ones down to the schooner, and Martin told them where they would find the iron kettle for boiling codfish, with the additional information that with skill and ingenuity they could make fish-balls in the same kettle.

  Martin had reported a plenitude of provisions, and anathematized the lying captain and steward; and Amos had declared his belief that with careful economy in the use of coal they could steam to the American coast with the supply in the bunkers: so they did not take any of the codfish, and the hawsers, valuable as fuel in case of a shortage, were left where they would be more valuable as evidence against the lawless, incompetent Englishmen. And they also left the dories, all but one, for reasons in Elisha’s mind which he did not state at the time.

  They removed the bonds of one man—who could release the others—and cast off the fastenings; then, with Amos and a picked crew of pupils in the boat’s vitals, they went ahead and dropped the prison-hulk back to the full length of the chain, while the furious curses of the prisoners troubled the air. They found a little difficulty in steering by the winch and deck-compass (they would have mended the tiller-ropes with a section of backstay had they not bargained otherwise), but finally mastered the knack, and headed westerly.

  You cannot take an Englishman’s ship from under him—homeward bound and close to port—and drag him to sea again on a diet of salt codfish without impinging on his sanity. When day broke they looked and saw the hawsers slipping over the schooner’s rail, and afterward a fountain of fish arising from her hatches to follow the hawsers overboard.

  “What’s de game, I wunner?” asked Martin. “Tryin’ to starve deyselves?”

  “Dunno,” answered Elisha, with a serious expression. “They’re not doin’ it for nothin’. They’re wavin’ their hats at us. Somethin’ on their minds.”

  “We’ll jes let ’em wave. We’ll go ’long ’bout our business.”

  So they went at eight knots an hour; for, try as he might, Amos could get no more out of the engine. “She’s a divil to chew up coal,” he explained; “we may have to burn the boat yet.”

  “Hope not,” said Elisha. “’Tween you an’ me, Amos, this is a desperate bluff we’re makin’, an’ if we go to destroyin’ property we may get no credit for savin’ it. We’d have no chance in the English courts at all, but it’s likely an American judge ’ud recognize our original position—our bargain to steer her in.”

  “Too bad ’bout that tarred cable of ours,” rejoined Amos; “three days’ good fuel in that, I calculate.”

  “Well, it’s gone with the codfish, and the fact is properly entered in the log as barratrous conduct on the part of the skipper. Enough to prove him insane.”

  And further to strengthen this possible aspect of the case, Elisha found a blank space on the leaf of the logbook which recorded the first meeting and bargain to tow, and filled it with the potential sentence, “Steamer’s commander acts strangely.” For a well-kept logbook is excellent testimony in court.

  Elisha’s knowledge of navigation did not enable him to project a course on the great circle—the shortest track between two points on the earth’s surface, and the route taken by steamers. But he possessed a fairly practical and ingenious mind, and with a flexible steel straight-edge rule, and a classroom globe in the skipper’s room, laid out his course between the lane-routes of the liners—which he would need to vary daily—as it was not wise to court investigation. But he signaled to two passing steamships for Greenwich time, and set his watch, obtaining its rate of correction by the second favor; and with this, and his surely correct latitude by meridian observation, he hoped to make an accurate landfall in home waters.

  And so the hours went by, with their captives waving caps ceaselessly, until the third day’s sun arose to show them an empty deck on the schooner, over a dozen specks far astern and to the southward, and an east-bound steamship on their port bow. The specks could be nothing but the dories, and they were evidently trying to intercept the steamship. Elisha yelled in delight.

  “They’ve abandoned ship—just what I hoped for—in the dories. They’ve no case at all now.”

  “But what for, Elisha?” asked Martin. “Mus’ be hungry, I t’ink.”

  “Mebbe, or else they think that liner, who can stop only to save life—carries the mails, you see—will turn round and put ’em in charge here. Why, nothin’ but an English man-o’-war could do that now.”

  They saw the steamship slow down, while the black specks flocked up to her, and then go on her way. And they went on theirs; but three days later they had reasoned out a better explanation of the Englishmen’s conduct. Martin came on deck with a worried face, and announced that, running short of salt meat in the harness-cask, he had broken out the barrels of beef, pork, and hard bread that he had counted upon, and found their contents absolutely uneatable, far gone in putrescence, alive with crawling things.

  “Must ha’ thought he was fitting out a Yankee hell-ship when he bought this,” said Elisha, in disgust, as he looked into the ill-smelling barrels. “Overboard with it, boys!”

  Overboard went the provisions, for starving animals could not eat of them, and the odor permeated the ship. They resigned themselves to a gloomy outlook—gloomier when Amos reported that the coal in the bunkers would last but two days longer. He had been mistaken, he said; he had calculated to run compound engines with Scotch boilers, not a full-powered blast-furnace with six inches of scale on the crown-sheets.

  “And they knew this,” groaned Elisha. “That’s why they chucked the stuff overboard—to bring us to terms, and never thinkin’ they’d starve first. They were dead luny, but we’re lunier.”

  They stopped the engines and visited the schooner in the dory. Not a scrap of food was there, and the fish-kettle was scraped bright. They returned and went on. With plenty of coal there was still six days’ run
ahead to New York. How many with wood fuel, chopped on empty stomachs and burned in coal-furnaces, they could not guess. But they went to work. There were three axes, two top-mauls, and several handspikes and pinch-bars aboard, and with these they attacked bulkheads and spare woodwork, and fed the fires with the fragments; for a glance down the hatches had shown them nothing more combustible and detachable in the cargo than a few layers of railroad iron, which covered and blocked the openings to the lower hold.

  With the tools at hand they could not supply the rapacious fires fast enough to keep up steam, and the engines slowed to a five-knot rate. As this would not maintain a sufficient tension on the dragging schooner to steer by, they were forced to sacrifice the best item in their claim for salvage: they spliced the tiller-ropes and steered from the pilot-house. They would have sacrificed the schooner, too, for Amos complained bitterly of the load on the engines; but Elisha would not hear of it. She was the last evidence in their favor now, their last connection with respectability.

  “She and the pavement o’ hell,” he growled fiercely, “are all we’ve got to back us up. Without proof we’re pirates under the law.”

  However, he made no entry in the log of the splicing, trusting that a chance would come in port to remove the section of wire rope with which they had joined the broken ends.

  And, indeed, it seemed that their claim was dwindling. The chronometer which they were to use for the steamer’s benefit was lost; the towline which they were to furnish had been given back to them; the course to New York which they chalked out had not been accepted; the abandoning of their ship by the Englishmen was clearly enforced by the pressure of their own presence; and now they themselves had been forced to cancel from the claim the schooner’s value as a necessary drag behind the steamer, by substituting a three hours’ splicing-job, worth five dollars in a rigging-loft, and possibly fifty if bargained for at sea. Nothing was left them now but their good intentions, duly entered in the logbook.

  But fate, and the stupid understanding of some one or two of them, decreed that their good intentions also should be taken from them. The logbook disappeared, and the strictest search failing to bring it to light, the conclusion was reached that it had been fed to the fires among the wreckage of the skipper’s room and furniture. They blasphemed to the extent that the occasion required, and there was civil war for a time, while the suspected ones were being punished; then they drew what remaining comfort they could from burning the steamer’s logbook and track-chart, which contained data conflicting with their position in the case, and resumed their labors.

  Martin had raked and scraped together enough of food to give them two scant meals; but these eaten, starvation began. The details of their suffering need not be given. They chopped, hammered, and pried in hunger and anxiety, and with lessening strength, while the days passed by—fortunately spared the torture of thirst, for there was plenty of water in the tanks. Upheld by the dominating influence of Elisha, Martin, and Amos, they stripped the upper works and fed to the fires every door and sash, every bulkhead and wooden partition, all chairs, stools, and tables, cabin berths and forecastle bunks. Then they attempted sending down the topmasts, but gave it up for lack of strength to get mast-ropes aloft, and attacked instead the boats on the chocks, of which there were four.

  It was no part of the plan to ask help of passing craft and have their distressed condition taken advantage of; but when the hopelessness of the fight at last appealed to the master spirits, they consented to the signaling of an east-bound steamer, far to the northward, in the hope of getting food. So the English ensign, union down, was again flown from the gaff. It was at a time when Elisha could not stand up at the wheel, when Amos at the engines could not have reversed them, when Martin—man of iron—staggered weakly around among the rest and struck them with a pump-brake, keeping them at work. (They would strive under the blows, and sit down when he had passed.) But the flag was not seen; a haze arose between the two craft and thickened to fog.

  By Elisha’s reckoning they were on the Banks now, about a hundred miles due south from Cape Sable, and nearer to Boston than to Halifax; otherwise he might have made for the latter port and defied alien prejudice. But the fog continued, and it was not port they were looking for now; it was help, food: they were working for life, not salvage; and, wasting no steam, they listened for whistles or fog-horns, but heard none near enough to be answered by their weak voices.

  And so the boat, dragging the dismal mockery behind her, plodded and groped her way on the course which Elisha had shaped for Boston, while man after man dropped in his tracks, refusing to rise; and those that were left nourished the fires as they could, until the afternoon of the third day of fog, when the thumping, struggling engines halted, started, made a half-revolution, and came to a dead stop. Amos crawled on deck and forward to the bridge, where, with Elisha’s help, he dragged on the whistle-rope and dissipated the remaining steam in a wheezy, gasping howl, which lasted about a half-minute. It was answered by a furious siren-blast from directly astern; and out of the fog, at twenty knots an hour, came a mammoth black steamer. Seeming to heave the small tramp out of the way with her bow wave, she roared by at six feet distance, and in ten seconds they were looking at her vanishing stern. But ten minutes later the stern appeared in view, as the liner backed toward them. The reversed English ensign still hung at the gaff; and the starving men, some prostrate on the deck, some clinging to the rails, unable to shout, had painted to the flag of distress and beckoned as the big ship rushed by.

  “There’s a chance,” said the captain of this liner to the pilot, as he rejoined him on the bridge an hour later, “of international complications over this case, and I may have to lose a trip to testify. That’s the Afghan Prince and consort that I was telling you about. Strange, isn’t it, that I should pick up these fellows after picking up the legitimate crew going east? I don’t know which crew was the hungriest. The real crew charge this crowd with piracy. By George, it’s rather funny!”

  “And these men,” said the pilot, with a laugh, “would have claimed salvage?”

  “Yes, and had a good claim, too, for effort expended; but they’ve offset it by their violence. Their chance was good in the English courts, if they’d only allowed the steamer to go on; and then, too, they abandoned her in a more dangerous position than where they found her. You see, they met her off Nantucket with sea-room, and nothing wrong with her but broken tiller-ropes; and they quit her here close to Sandy Hook, in a fog, more than likely to hit the beach before morning. Then, in that case, she belongs to the owners or underwriters.”

  “Why didn’t they make Boston?” asked the pilot.

  “Tried to, but overran their distance. Chronometer must have been ’way out. I talked to the one who navigated, and found that he’d never thought of allowing for local attraction—didn’t happen to run against the boat’s deviation table—and so, with all that railway iron below hatches, he fetched clear o’ Nantucket, and ’way in here.”

  “That’s tough. The salvage of that steamer would make them rich, wouldn’t it? And I think they might have got it if they could have held out.”

  “Yes; think they might. But here’s another funny thing about it. They needn’t have starved. They needn’t have chopped her to pieces for fuel. I just remember, now. Her skipper told me there was good anthracite coal in her hold, and Chicago canned meats, Minnesota flour, beef, pork, and all sorts of good grub. He carried some of the rails in the ’tween-deck for steadying ballast, and I suppose it prevented them looking farther. And now they’ll lose their salvage, and perhaps have to pay it on their own schooner if anything comes along and picks them up. That’s the craft that’ll get the salvage.”

  “Not likely,” said the pilot; “not in this fog, and the wind and sea rising. I’ll give ’em six hours to fetch up on the Jersey coast. A mail contract with the government is sometimes a nuisance, isn’t it, captain? How many years would it take you to save money to equal your share of the salv
age if you had yanked that tramp and the schooner into New York?”

  “It would take more than one lifetime,” answered the captain, a little sadly. “A skipper on a mail-boat is the biggest fool that goes to sea.”

  The liner did not reach quarantine until after sundown, hence remained there through the night. As she was lifting her anchor in the morning, preparatory to steaming up to her dock, the crew of the Rosebud, refreshed by food and sleep, but still weak and nerveless, came on deck to witness a harrowing sight. The Afghan Prince was coming toward the anchorage before a brisk southeast wind. Astern of her, held by the heavy iron chain, was their schooner. Moored to her, one on each side, were two garbage-scows; and at the head of the parade, pretending to tow them all—puffing, rolling, and smoking in the effort to keep a strain on the towline—and tooting joyously with her whistle, was a little, dingy tugboat, with a large gilt name on her pilot-house—J. C. Hawks.

  19 Ash-cats: engineers and firemen.

  BETWEEN THE MILLSTONES, by Morgan Robertson

  He stood before the recruiting officer, trembling with nervousness, anxious of face, and clothed in rags; but he was clean, for, knowing the moral effect of cleanliness, he had lately sought the beach and taken a swim.

  “Want to enlist?” asked the officer, taking his measure with trained eye.

  “Yes, sir; I read you wanted men in the navy.”